Lyra 
Levis 

\ 

Zdivard 
<Bliss 


EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 

FROM  THE  FUND 
ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 
SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 
YALE  UNIVERSITY      <2 > 


LYRA  LEVIS 


By  the  Same  Author 
English  Lyrical  Poetry 
Lyra  Yalensis 
Sea  Moods 


By  Edward  Bliss  Reed 


New  Haven 

Tale  University  Press 

Mdccccxxij 


Copyright  1922  by 
Yale  University  Press 


Contents 

Preface  9 

To  the  Reader  1 1 

Ambition  12 
In  Osborn  Hall 

I.  Age  15 

II.  Youth  16 

Disillusionment  18 

Fatality  20 

To  Alumni  Hall  22 

Yale  Station  24 

Lines  on  the  Destruction  of  an  Elm  26 

Jazz  28 

The  Wooden  Spoon  Prom  30 

Penelope  32 

/4/ter  Her  rick  34 

Christmas  Vacation  35 

rA<?  5/Mjjf«-  37 

General  Information  39 

Fatuus  42 

Absentia  44 

Lecture  46 

Af^c/z  48 

Insomniac  50 
072  tfA<?  Intimations  of  an  Unexpected 

Cut  54 

70  #  Freshman  58 

5 

646575 


Admonition 

To  a  Senior  63 

In  Vacation 
Poplars 

Recompense  73 

The  Wife 

Three  Friends  78 

The  High  Hills  of  Moab 
Damascus 
The  Ending  84 


SOME  of  the  poems  in  this  little 
volume  have  previously  appeared  in 
"Lyra  Yalensis"  the  edition  of  which 
is  exhausted.  A  few  have  been  printed 
in  "Sea  Moods,"  the  first  edition  of 
which  is  not  exhausted,  though  the  pub 
lisher' 's  patience  is.  I  desire  to  thank 
"Asia"  "The  Independent"  "The  Ox 
ford  Magazine"  the  "Yale  Alumni 
Weekly"  and  the  "Yale  Review"  for 
permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these 
verses;  but  I  wish  to  thank  much  more 
heartily  any  one  who  cares  to  read  them. 

E.B.R. 


Preface 

"Duke  est"— (elide  one  "e" ;  'twill  scan)— 
Desipere."  Those  words  are  true. 

Horace  is  right ;  it's  good  for  man 
To  take  time  off  and  not  get  blue. 

I  cannot  judge  that  person  sane 
Who  seems  to  be  afraid  to  smile. 

It's  wise  at  times  to  be  inane, 

To  read  books  that  are  not  worth  while.* 

We  hear  too  much  to  make  us  wise, 
We  bolt  it  all — the  wheat,  the  chalf , 

We'd  see  more  if  we  closed  our  eyes, 
We'd  learn  more  if  we  learned  to  laugh. 

Then,  Melancholy,  you're  not  wanted; 

Nor  Wisdom,  with  her  foolish  frippery. 
Black  Care,  home  to  your  cave  ghost-haunted ! 

Here  for  brief  moments  we'll  desipere. 

*  This  is  one.  Author's  Note. 


the  Reader 

In  a  fine  poem,  Herrick  said 

When  he  would  have  his  verses  read. 

He  laid  down  the  specific  times 

For  men  to  seek  his  lyric  rhymes. 

Though  I'm  not  quite  so  good  as  he, 

My  readers  have  more  liberty. 

No    rules    I'll    place    (for   who   would    heed 

them), 

About  these  pages — only  rea4  them 
At  noon  or  night,  in  sun  or  ram,' 
In  easy  chair  or  on  the  train, 
For  every  reader  is  my  gain.  . 
Yet  to  one  evil  I'm  averse ; 
Avoid  it,  and  my  poet's  curse. 
When  you  have  glanced  these  verses  through, 
Refrain  from  what  so  many  do — 
Never,  my  reader,  never  lend  them ; 
Much  better  in  the  flames  to  send  them, 
For  if  you  loan  this  book,  I  guess 
The  publishers  will  sell  one  less. 
So  now  I  speak  in  awful  tones 
The  poet's  curse  that  chills  the  bones : 
Long  may  that  man  in  darkness  smother 
Who  lends  these  verses  to  another. 


11 


Ambition 

I  delight  in  Harkness  tower 
With  its  beauty,  new  each  hour, 
When  the  dark-blue  rain  clouds  lower 

O'er  its  head; 

When  the  moonlight  plays  around  it, 
When  the  dazzling  sunbeams  crowned  it, 
Yes,  a  thing  of  joy  I've  found  it 

(As  I've  said.) 

But  J  cannon  help  from  thinking 
Of  one  flaw — no  use  of  blinking : 
:  All  those  statues  that  are  linking 

Up  the  past 

With  our  day,  seem  calling  to  us: 
"You've  no  room  here.  Simply  view  us. 
You'll  be  famous  only  through  us" 

I'm  aghast ! 

Every  tower  place  is  taken, 
All  self-confidence  is  shaken 
When  we  know  we'll  never  waken 

In  a  niche. 

Does  it  mean  that  we  are  fated, 
For  oblivion  all  slated, 
That  our  star-hitched  Ford  has  skated 

Down  a  ditch? 


12 


Surely  I've  no  wish  to  grumble 
Yet  no  man  is  quite  so  humble 
But  he  hopes  some  wall  may  crumble 

And  he'll  rise. 

Each  one  has  an  inclination 
To  climb  out  of  his  low  station 
To  a  fairer  elevation 

Near  the  skies. 

Let  me  say  in  the  beginning 
We  have  little  hope  of  winning 
Some  new  form  of  cotton-ginning, 

Lest  you  laugh. 

And  we  know  that  it  of  course  is 
Quite  absurd  to  think  we've  forces 
That  will  equal  Samuel  Morse's 

Telegraph. 

It  would  be  a  work  of  super- 

Erogation  to  think  Cooper 

We  might  rival — we  can't  dupe  her, 

Clear-eyed  Fame. 
And  we  have  no  mean  ambition 
To  steal  Calhoun's  high  position, 
And  to  Webster's  erudition 

We've  no  claim. 


But  on  Harkness  they've  put  creatures, 
Some  of  them  with  women's  features, 
Moral,  allegoric  teachers, 

Faith  and  Hope, 

Science,  Justice,  always  weighing, 
On  that  tower  forever  staying. 
Is  that  right?  (You  should  be  saying 

Loudly,  "Nope!") 

Build  a  tower  with  empty  places, 
And  we'll  try  to  break  our  traces, 
And  we'll  rush  like  one  who  races 

Down  a  slant, 

And  we'll  vow :  "Soon  with  a  grand  air 
Looking  nobly  o'er  this  land  where 
Once  we  lived,  we  too  shall  stand  there." 

(But  we  shan't.) 


In  Osborn  Hall 

I.  AGE 

I  watch  you  to-day  at  the  end  of  your  row 
(You  came  early  to  class  once  again), 

By  the  way  you  are  looking  me  over,  I  know 
That  we  puzzle  each  other ;  it's  plain. 

Your  tastes,  be  it  movies  or  books,  I  observe 
Is  Boeotian — that's  primitive,  rude — 

And  your  judgment  of  things  lacks  all  depth 

that  age  brings; 
In  a  word,  I  might  say  you  are  crude. 

When  I  see  you  stand  there  wildly  pawing  the 

air 

(Metaphorically),  seeking  a  thought, 
Do  you  never  suspect  it's  not  hard  to  detect 
That    you're    bluffing — like     others     I've 
taught ? 

I  know  that  you  feel  all  my  work  is  unreal, 
And   that   books,   when   you   live,   are   but 

tame; 
That  I'm  stuck  in  the  past  while  your  life 

moves  on  fast 
With  the  thrill  of  a  sharply  fought  game. 

15 


You  can't  comprehend  how   my  time  I  can 
spend 

In  teaching  what  others  have  said ; 
You  think  I'm  benighted  to  get  so  excited 

O'er  Chaucer.  Why  bother?  He's  dead. 

But   of  course  we're  well-bred   so  we  never 

have  said 

What  we  think  of  each  other.  Alas ! 
Still  we  know,  you  and  I,  that  between  us 

must  lie 
A  chasm  that  neither  can  pass. 

Yet  the   gulf   that   would   sever   us   both,   it 
may  be, 

Is  not  deep,  as  appears  at  first  view, 
For  certainly  you  are  as  funny  to  me, 

As  I  must  seem  funny  to  you. 


II.  YOUTH 

In  old  days  they  say  that  Plato 
Taught  in  quiet  groves  where  all 

Heard  him  question  and  debate.  O 
What  a  change  from  Osborn  Hall. 

16 


Hear  the  trolley  wheels  loud  creaking, 

Listen  to  that  deafening  bell ! 
(That's  not  the  Professor  speaking; 

Merely  some  young  newsboy's  yell.) 

(Men  on  the  front  row  reclining 
Have  not  caught  a  word  to-day, 

Yet  his  forehead's  moist  and  shining. 
Sure  he's  working  for  his  pay.) 

That's  a  regimental  band  or 

Minstrel  show — they  drum  too  much. 
(He  is  lecturing  on  Landor, 

And  his  quiet,  classic  touch.) 

(Is  that  poetry  he's  reading?) 
Siren  screams  a  sounding  shriek! 

That's  the  fire-chief,  and  he's  speeding. 
One  more  fire  sale  this  week. 

On  the  Taft  Hotel  they're  banging; 

With  a  most  infernal  sound 
Ring  the  iron  girders,  clanging 

As  they  dump  them  on  the  ground. 

Whistles  blowing,  tires  bursting, 

— Pandemonium's  begun — 
Soothe  the  mind  for  culture  thirsting. 

(What?— he's  gone?— The  lecture's  done !) 

17 


Disillusionment 

I  met  him  last  vacation  down  in  Maine, 
A  self-made  man,  a  multi-millionaire. 
Hearing  I  taught  at  Yale,  he  made  it  plain 
He  wished  to  know  me ;  hoped  that  I  would 

share 
His  speedy  yacht  with  him.   With   friendly 

mien 
He  gave  me  cushioned  seat  in  limousine. 

Quite    free   with   his    cigars    (they   were    the 

best) 

He  oft  entreated  me  to  set  him  right. 
"Tell  me  what  I  must  read,"  he  plead  with 

zest, 

"Just  put  me  wise  and  I'll  sit  up  all  night. 
Come,  tip  me  off.  What  books  should  I  enjoy ? 
Would    you    just    coach    me*?"    Would    I"? 
'  Ataboy ! 

There,  while  the  fragrant  smoke  about  him 

curled, 

I  opened  for  him  regions  unexplored, 
Told   him   of    books    that   shaped   our   little 

world ; 
Eyes  shut,  he  listened,  silent,  never  bored, 

18 


And  when   I  ended,   thinking  'twas   enough, 
He  started  up,  "Don't  stop,  Prof,  you're  hot 
stuff!" 

Scarce  had  term  opened  when  he  wrote  to  me 

(Cigars,  I  add,  accompanied  the  letter). 
He  said  he'd  done  the  books  and  wished  to  see 

Another  list,  the  longer  one,  the  better. 
Let   Sophomores   yawn   and   sadly   eye   their 

wrist 

Watches.  Here's  one  who  knows  what  he  has 
missed. 

To-day  I  found  a  letter  in  my  box. 

It  bore  his  mark.  How  eagerly  he  sought 
Wisdom.  Yet  on  the  Campus  there  are  flocks 

Of    students    fighting    hard    lest    they    be 

taught. 

I  knew  his  old  request — 'Twas  not  the  same ! 
He  wished  ten  tickets  for  the  Harvard  game. 


Fatality 


(Written    on    Seeing    the    new    Fire    Escapes    of 
Durfee  Hall} 

Whene'er  I  walk  the  campus  round 

How  much  that's  poor  I  see ; 
What  buildings  desecrate  the  ground — 

No  plan,  no  symmetry — 
And  now  it's  worse !  A  poet's  curse 

On  those  who  spoiled  Durfee. 

All  down  its  back,  broad  stairs  of  black, 

Verandahs  at  each  turn; 
Why,  in  my  time,  we  all  could  climb 

Without  the  least  concern 
A  simple  ladder's  iron  rungs. 

Such  childish  steps  we'd  spurn. 

Can  it  be  true  the  check  I  drew 

For  the  Alumni  Fund 
Will  help  to  pay  for  this  display 

Of  ugliness?  I'm  stunned. 
My  college  pride,  I  fear,  has  died; 

At  least,  it's  moribund. 


20 


Yet  over  there  the  Harkness  square 
Reveals  new  charm  each  day, 

And  beauty's  power  in  Wrexham  tower 
Would  make  a  pagan  pray. 

Then  why  must  we  deface  Durfee  ? 
Because — it's  just  our  way. 


21 


Alumni  Hall 

Where  once  we  rushed,  like  cattle  sent 
To  slaughter,  where  the  brave  and  good 

Flunked,  'neath  the  massive  battlement 
Of  painted  wood. 

Where  Banjo  Clubs  would  jog  a  rhythm 
To  make  the  very  floors  unstable ; 

Where  Richards  taught  the  logarithm, 
From  four  place  table. 

Where  once  the  Junior  danced  the  German, 
Or  told  the  chaperon  tales  that  shocked  her, 

As  she  sat  yawning  in  her  ermine, 
Bored  as  a  proctor. 

Where  each  Commencement  grads  assembled 
To  hear  the  reverberate  platitude, 

And  at  the  stalest  jests  dissembled 
Great  gratitude. 

Alas,  it  goes !  though  o'er  it  glory 

Floats  with  the  flag ;  and  yet,  I  grant  it, 

Better  will  be  Wright  dormitory 
That  shall  supplant  it. 


22 


Where  safely  sheltered  from  the  road  or 
Gay  York  Street,  Freshmen  at  their  will 

May  sniff  up  sanctity's  fine  odor 
From  Dwight  Hall  grill. 


Tale  Station 

He  dodged  a  trolley,  nearly  tripping 

In  speeding  past  a  crazy  Ford. 
No  chance  for  him,  had  he  been  slipping; 

He  stands  here,  disappointed,  bored. 

Watching  the  clerks  the  mail  distribute, 

Idly  he  leans  against  the  wall. 
To  this  such  frantic  haste  attribute : 

He  sought  a  letter — that  was  all. 

I  find  my  box  and  I'm  despairing. 

No  luck.  Here's  mail  that  must  be  read. 
"Committee  meeting" — futile,  wearing ; 

"Five  lectures" — why,  they'll  talk  us  dead. 

"Will  you  subscribe?" — where's  the  waste 
basket? 

What  next ;  a  fortune  offered  here ! 
"We'll  send  the  oil  stocks  if  you  ask  it." 

We're  not  such  fools  as  we  appear. 

"A  friend  and  I  have  made  a  wager. 

Is  it  correct — "  who  cares,  who  knows? 
Why  should  I  turn  a  single  page,  or 

Work  for  a  bet  ?  Bang !  there  that  goes. 


One  letter  more,  just  wait  a  minute; 

Not  possible !  It  is,  alack !    ! 
My  manuscript — with  genius  in  it — 

The  editor  has  sent  it  back. 

Still  for  his  mail  the  student  stays  here. 

I'll  put — you  could  not  do  it  better — 
Two  ages  in  a  single  phrase  here  : 

"Youth  seeks  and  Age  avoids — the  letter. 


Lines  on  the  Destruction  of  an 
Elm 

Lines  written  December  2,  1912,  on  the  destruction 
of  the  elm  long  standing  on  the  corner  of  Col 
lege  and  Chapel  Streets. 

Thy    rugged    form,    thy    proud,    substantial 

girth, 
Thy  branches — arms  outstretched  to  greet 

the  sky, 

Thy  stubborn  roots,  entwisted  deep  in  earth, 
Could  not  avail.  The  sentinel  must  die. 

In  happier  days,  ere  man  defaced  its  realm, 
It  heard  from  hall  and  fence  the  college 

glees ; 
And  when  the  moonlight  touched  it,  this  old 

elm 
Shook,  like  a  child,  for  joy  at  every  breeze. 

Ah!  heavy  change!  the  gloomy,  great  white 

way; 

The  Taft,  that  hides,  unshamed,  the  sun 
set's  glow ; 

Osborn,  where,  mid  the  din,  Professors  pray 
Their  shrieks  may  carry  far  as  the  front 
row. 

26 


Osborn,  that  weird,  fantastic  dream  in  stone, 
Perched  like  a  squatting  toad  with  open  lip ; 

Or  like  a  ferry-boat — banged,  battered,  blown, 
Bumping  a  blunted  nose  into  the  slip. 

The    Taft,    that    strange,    uncouth,    smoke- 
clouded  shape, 
Dwarfing    the    college    halls    in    senseless 

pride ; 

Can  brick  and  limestone  set  the  crowd  agape, 
When  all  must  see  there  is  another  side*? 

Hail  and  farewell,  old  friend;   'tis  thy  last 

Fall, 
Take  thy  last  cut !  Woodman,  spare  not  this 

tree. 

Fated  to  watch  the  Taft  and  Osborn  Hall, 
Death  is  release — 'tis  better  not  to  be. 


Jazz 

Thomas,  it's  very  good  in  you 

To  ask  me  to  your  room.  You  knew 

That  I  like  music.  Heaven  preserve  me 

From  screeching  jazz,  more  will  unnerve  me. 

From  every  open  window  here 

Just  jangling  jazz  jars  jaded  ear. 

I'd  kill  it  all !    !  You  look  perplexed. 

You've  brought  me  to  hear  jazz?  What  next! 

O,  never  mind.  Get  on;  go  to  it, 

But  hear  first  how  we  used  to  do  it. 

I  had  this  room  once.  'Twas  a  treat, 
Stretched  on  this  Durfee  window  seat, 
Down  by  that  fence  to  hear  them  sing, 
In  the  warm,  starry  nights  of  Spring. 
The  Glee  Club  gave  us  a  rehearsal ; 
From  windows  came  a  universal 
"More  music."  After  every  song 
Each  room  applauded  loud  and  long. 
Why,  I  can  almost  hear  again 
The  ocean  bass  of  Noah  Swayne. 
When  Runyon  sang  "Antigone" 
'Twas  wit — not  jazz  vulgarity. 
We  made  our  songs — but  yours  are  gotten 
From   Broadway    shows,    and,    Tom,   they're 
rotten. 

28 


Thomas,  you  listen,  meek  and  docile; 
Deep  in  your  heart  you  say  "Old  fossil." 
But,  Thomas,  do  not  think  I  scold 
Merely  because  I'm  getting  old. 
Of  course  things  change.  What  need  to  rave 

or 

Grieve  for  the  past,  and  yet  a  flavor 
That  made  this  place  once  great,  seems  lack 
ing- 
New  York  again  ?  Keep  right  on  packing — 
And  college  songs — half  dreams,  half  fun, 
I  hear  no  more ;  their  day  is  done, 
And  youths  to  midnight  frolics  run. 

Well,   Tom — he's   gone!    The  movies   claim 

him. 
He's  been  but  once  to-day;  don't  blame  him. 


29 


The  Wooden  Spoon  Prom 

"On  Wednesday  evening,  June  igth,  Helms- 
muller's  Band,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Spoon 
Committee,  gave  the  usual  Promenade  Concert 
at  Music  Hall.  The  attendance  was  larger  than 
it  has  been  for  many  years.  The  hall  had  been 
decorated  with  taste  and  elegance.  The  music 
was  bewitching,  the  ladies  divine,  'and  all  went 
merry  as  a  marriage  bell' "  Yale  Literary  Maga 
zine,  July,  1865. 

Up  two  narrow  flights  I  have  hastened 

And  here  in  the  gallery  row, 
Dejected  in  spirit  and  chastened, 

I  gaze  on  the  beauty  below. 
With  flags  for  the  war  that  has  ended, 

With  bunting  and  wreaths,  Music  Hall 
Is  a  vision  entrancing  and  splendid — 

I'm  alone  at  the  Wooden  Spoon  Ball. 

First  the  concert;  it's  hard  to  live  through  it, 

All  the  music  they  play  is  a  bore. 
What  soul  in  the  crowd  listens  to  it? 

Not  the  guests  promenading  the  floor. 
I've  heard  William  Tell  till  I'm  weary; 

Donizetti  is  trash ;  Meyerbeer 
With  his  Huguenots  simply  is  dreary; 

Were  it  Lohengrin — hush !  She  is  here. 

30 


White  hoop-skirt,  pink  sash  at  her  shoulder, 

Pink  rose  at  her  breast,  in  her  hair 
With  its  dark  Grecian  curls — to  behold  her 

I  lean  o'er  the  railing  and  stare. 
Perhaps  it's  the  heat  makes  me  flighty — 

As  I  look  at  her  surely  I  see 
Trojan  Helen,  divine  Aphrodite, 

Or  the  Empress  of  France,  Eugenie. 

She  moves  like  a  queen  through  the  dancers, 

Like  a  wave  of  the  sea,  never  still. 
Was  there  ever  such  grace  in  the  lancers, 

In  the  redowa,  schottische,  quadrille? 
The  last  time  we  met,  I  remember, 

She  was  distant  and  cold  as  the  moon ; 
She  froze  me  like  ice,  last  December — 

She  sees  me — she  bows — this  is  June! 

I'm  down  on  the  floor  in  a  minute ; 

(The  best  waltz  of  Helmsmiiller's  band) 
"My  dance.  We  lose  time ;  let's  begin  it." 

She  smiles  and  she  gives  me  her  hand. 
To-morrow  she'll  beam  upon  Harry, 

Next  week  she'll  be  flirting  with  Tom, 
And  it's  Jack  that  she'll  probably  marry — 

Still,   we'll   dance   at  the   Wooden   Spoon 
Prom. 


Penelope 

Penelope,  Penelope, 

She  sat  in  silence  by  the  sea. 

Far  out  she  gazed  with  eager  eye, 

Naught  but  the  gulls  could  she  descry; 

And  her  Odysseus,  where  was  he*? 

Penelope,  Penelope. 

Penelope,  Penelope, 

Is  this  the  end  of  constancy 

Such  as  the  world  has  never  known, 

Here  by  the  sea  to  watch  alone"? 

And  her  Odysseus,  where  was  he? 

Penelope,  Penelope. 

"Ye  gulls,  as  o'er  the  waves  you  flew, 
Saw  you  Odysseus  and  his  crew  ? 
O  clouds,  O  winds,  O  dancing  foam, 
Tell  if  his  prow  be  pointed  home." 
No  answer  came,  alas,  to  thee, 
Penelope,  Penelope. 

Penelope,  Penelope, 

She  sank  into  a  reverie : 

Odysseus  seemed  to  tread  the  shore, 

She  heard  his  thrilling  voice  once  more — 

Who  calls ?  who  speaks?  Can  that  be  Death? 

Nay,  'tis  her  maid  all  out  of  breath. 

32 


"Please,  Ma'am,  will  you  come  home  with 

me? 

There's  fifty  suitors  come  to  tea. 
The  cook  has  left,  there  ain't  no  meat, 
There's  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat. 
I'm  overworked  and  underpaid, 
You've  got  to  get  another  maid!" 


One  long,  last  look  out  o'er  the  sea, 
Then  home  she  skipped,  Penelope. 


33 


After  Her  rick 

{At  some  distance?) 

Gather  ye  rosebugs  while  ye  may 

For  they  are  still  a-flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  may  be  dying. 

The  glorious  vamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  it's  a-getting 
The  more  the  rosebugs,  one  by  one, 

Their  appetites  are  whetting. 

That  way  is  best  that  kills  the  first; 

As  days  are  getting  warmer 
They  come  in  swarms,  and  worse,  and  worst 

Will  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time ; 

Kill  while  you  may — don't  tarry, 
Or  else  your  roses,  e'er  their  prime, 

Will  look  like  the  old  Harry. 


34 


Christmas  Vacation 

Loud  shouts  are  echoing  up  the  stair ; 

Trunk-laden  porters  grunt  and  slip ; 
The  janitors,  with  eager  air, 

Await  the  tip. 

Long  lines  of  sputtering  taxis  rush, 
Filled  to  the  brim  to  cut  the  fare, 

Spattering  the  passer-by  with  slush 
As  on  they  tear. 

All  is  confusion,  clatter,  din ; 

Endure  it,  for  the  shouting  dies, 
And  soon,  like  some  deserted  inn, 

The  campus  lies. 

From  darkened  halls  no  warm  lights  glow, 
'Tis  quiet  as  the  sleeping  sea. 

"It  must  be  pretty  lonely."  "No, 
This  just  suits  me." 

No  visitor  to  ask  his  mark; 

No  themeless  themes  to  split  the  head ; 
No  poems,  where  there  glows  no  spark, 

Need  now  be  read. 


No  living  by  the  chapel  chime; 

What  matter  if  I  should  be  late? 
What  luxury  to  know  the  time 

Yet  sleep  till  eight. 

Now  we  may  loiter  o'er  the  meal, 
(Mostly  like  hunted  deer  we  feed) 

And  talk  with  friends,  and  best — may  feel 
We've  time  to  read. 

O  pious  founders,  build  anew; 

Endow  us  with  investments  prudent 
And  see  what  faculties  could  do, — 

Without  one  student. 


<?he  Bluffer 

A  COLLEGE  LEGEND 

"Don't  work,"   the  bluffer   said,   "it   doesn't 

pay; 

In  textbooks  never  once  have  I  invested, 
But  when  Professors  speak,  in  every  way 
I  try  to  show  I'm  deeply  interested. 
Look  bright;  take  notes;  be  cheerful — never 

scowl ; 
Seem  wise;  imagine  you're  Minerva's  owl." 

Sometimes  when  the  Professor  tried  a  joke 
At   which   the   class   would   hardly   deign   to 

smile, 

A  jest  (B.  C.)  that  some  poor  half-wit  spoke 
In  Nineveh  or  Thebes  (upon  the  Nile), 
Or  labored,  pointless  pun  not  worth  a  straw, 
You  heard  the  bluffer's  echoing  guffaw. 

He  hung  on  every  word  as  if  entranced, 
And  questions  after  class  he  always  had; 
From  the  instructor's  face  he  never  glanced 
At  Yale  News,  neatly  folded  on  his  pad. 
When  the  clock  struck  and  men  leaped  eager- 
eyed 
Doorward,  he  sat  as  loath  to  leave,  and  sighed. 

37 


Judging  'twas  time  to  see  how  matters  lay, 
He  neared  the  desk.   Then,  with  a  friendly 

smirk : 

"This  course  is  simply  great!  Oh,  by  the  way, 
What  is  my  stand  *?  I  hope  it  shows  my  work. 
Really,  I  study  hard  enough  to  sap  a 
Prize  fighter — but  I  want  Phi  Beta  Kappa." 

A  weary  smile  crossed  the  Professor's  face: 
"We  differentiate  a  flunk  and  bluffing. 
When  a  man  bluffs,  a  minus  mark  we  place 
Against    his    name.    That    knocks    the    very 

stuffing 
Out   of   his   stand.    Your   mark?    Shades    of 

Gervinus ! 
(A     German     scholar) — you     are     eighty — 

minus !" 

As  an  exhausted  swimmer  grasps  a  rope, 
The  bluffer  clutched  the  desk,  and  changed 

his  tune : 

Pleading  he  said :  "I  have  a  chance,  I  hope, 
If  I  work  like  a  dog  from  now  till  June — 
(He  stuck  his  chest  out,  every  inch  a  hero) — 
Give  me  a  chance  to  raise  that  stand  to  zero !" 


General  Information 

0  for  that  warning  voice,  which  he  who  saw 
The  Apocalypse  heard  cry  in  Heaven  aloud, 
Then  when  the  Dragon,  put  to  second  rout, 
Came  furious  down  to  be  revenged  on  men, 
Woe  to  the  inhabitants  on  Earth ! 

Book  IV,  lines  i-v. 

These  lines,  as  you  may  well  surmise, 
Are  from  a  famous  poem  built  on 
Heroic  plan,  from  "Paradise 
Lost,"  epic  written  by  John  Milton. 

Our  text  the  hard  parts  would  explain ; 
For  this,  no  single  clue  it  gave  them. 
Here  was  a  chance  to  try  again 
Could  "general  information"  save  them. 

My  moving  finger  wrote,  with  chalk, 
(Their  dull,  dead  stupor,  who  could  draw  it? 
Seeing  their  hopes  cut  at  the  stalk) 
"What  was  th'  Apocalypse"?  Who  saw  it*?" 

They  shook  their  heads  in  mute  despair. 
Amid  the  silence,  I  felt  creeping, 
Converging  on  my  desk  and  chair, 
Curses  from  anguished  minds  outseeping. 


39 


That  done,  and  with  their  minds  relieved, 
Each  one  his  pencil  slowly  nibbled, 
Then,  like  some  criminal  reprieved, 
They  all  impetuously  scribbled. 

I  took  their  papers;  off  I  sped; 
I  barred  my  door  so  oft  invaded. 
You  know  each  answer  must  be  read 
And,  worse  than  that,  it  must  be  graded. 

I  read:  "Th'  Apocalypse  you'll  view 

In   heaven.    They're   stars;    I've    never    seen 

them." 

"The  Testaments,  one  old,  one  new, 
Hold  the  Apocalypse  between  them." 

"Th5  Apocalypse, — a  monster  feared, 
But  killed  by  Jason,  classics  tell  us." 
"It  was  a  famous  temple,  reared 
Upon  a  cliff  in  Athens,  Hellas." 

And  written  by  a  plodding  lad 
Who  had  not  wit — his  forte  was  bathos  : 
"A  wild,  weird  dream  St.  Patrick  had 
When  captured  on  the  isle  of  Pathos !" 


40 


Reader,  with  care  this  work  I've  done, 
Their  answers  you  have  read  verbatim; 
Call  at  my  office — twelve  to  one — - 
Their  manuscripts,  you  can  collate  'em. 

I  read  no  more  on  couch  reclined, 
I'd  seen  enough  to  feel  omniscient, 
For  of  the  Sophomoric  mind 
This  Revelation  was  sufficient. 


Ignis  Fatuus 

All  through  the  college  year  a  light  is  glow 
ing, 

A  hope  that  we  may  rise  to  heights  sublime, 
Shining  before  the  world,  our  genius  showing, 

By  work  that  we  shall  do  in  summer  time. 

O  bitter  jest  of  "Academic  leisure" ! 

(Pronounce  that  "e"  short)  as  we're  rushed 

and  driven, 
Still  in  our  hearts  a  sacred  hope  we  treasure : 

In  summer,  in  vacation  we'll  be  given 

Time  to  put  down  the  thoughts  we  long  to 

utter, 

To  write  the  play,  to  build  the  lofty  rhyme, 
In  fact,  to  show  we're  worth  our  bread  and 

butter — 

A  chance  to  work !  'Twill  come  in  summer 
time. 


The  term  has  ended ;  off  on  our  vacation 
We   find   the  first  weeks   that  we  need   a 
rest. 

To  try  to  work  would  be  exasperation, 
Man  only  soars  when  he  is  at  his  best. 

42 


We  had  not  dreamed  that  we  were  so  depleted, 
Though  college  terms  are  one  continued 
strain ; 

At  last  we're  ready,  at  our  desk  we're  seated — 
Too  late !  Next  week  the  term  begins  again ! 

Unconquered,  every  year  that  dream  comes  to 
us — 

And  every  year  it  is  not  worth  a  dime — 
And  still  that  old  ambition  surges  through  us, 

Of  work  we'll  surely  do  in  summer  time. 

When  I  retire  upon  a  modest  pension, 
I'll  seek  some  inexpensive,  tropic  isle, 

(Not  the  South  Seas — a  place  with  more  con 
vention) 
Some  spot  where  it  is  summer  all  the  while. 

I'll  have  no  callers — there's  the  sea  about  it — 
My  life  no  more  is  set  to  Battell's  chime, 

Perhaps  I  can  begin  then — but  I  doubt  it — 
That  work  I  meant  to  do  in  summer  time. 


43 


In  Absentia 

I  say  to  you  I  hold  it  true 

As  axiom  mathematical, 
That  he  is  blest  above  the  rest 

Who's  off  on  his  sabbatical. 

He  can  explore  each  foreign  shore 

In  manner  autocratical ; 
In  Greece  he  dreams — (and  we  read  themes  !) 

The  man  on  his  sabbatical. 

He  sings  a  paean  o'er  Bodleian, 

In  knowledge  grows  piratical. 
We  wear  our  mind  on  bluff  and  grind, 

While  he's  on  his  sabbatical. 

We  toil  each  night;  he  can  delight 

In  pleasures  operatical, 
Sleep  late  next  day — and  merely  say: 

"Why,  I'm  on  my  sabbatical." 

No  telephone  can  make  him  groan 

By  constant  ring  emphatical. 
Beyond  the  pale  of  dunning  mail, 

The  man  on  his  sabbatical. 


44 


When  longed-for  Spring  but  comes  to  bring 

A  laziness  climatical, 
He  need  harass  no  sleepy  class, 

The  man  on  his  sabbatical. 

Millennium  would  surely  come 
And  life  would  grow  ecstatical, 

Could  we  teach  here  the  even  year, 
The  odd  one,  take  sabbatical ! 


45 


The  Lecture 

College  de  France,  a  dingy  room; 

Bent  o'er  the  desk,  he  turns  his  pages 
Droning  a  lecture  in  the  gloom 

On  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Outside,  the  world  in  May  attire 

Would  make  the  dullest,  calmest  sages 

Throw  all  their  books  into  the  fire — 
Here's  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

First,  he  will  take  a  "rapid  view" ; 

He  ambles  on  in  lengthy  stages. 
I  might  be  walking  at  St.  Cloud, 

But — "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

To-night  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau — 
Another  theme  his  mind  engages, 

Another  point  we  all  must  know 
Of  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Out  in  the  street  I  hear  a  song; 

We  sit  mute,  captive  birds  in  cages. 
Our  life  is  short,  the  lecture's  long. 

O  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 


Without,  the  sky  with  stars  is  sown. 

Wisdom,  is  this  your  gift,  your  wages ! 
Poor  man — his  world  a  stick,  a  stone, 

That's  "Beauty  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Long  years  of  study — this  is  all. 

Anger,  revolt  within  me  rages. 
"Le  cinquieme  point" — I  leave  the  hall. 

He  died,  lost  in  the  Middle  Ages. 


47 


The  Match 

(Not  after  Swinburne.) 

"Matches  shall   not  be   brought  to   the  Library." 
Bodleian  Library  Staff-Kalendar,  1912,  p.  50. 

One  fatal  day  I  wound  my  way 

Up  Bodley's  steep  ascent; 
My  shoulders  showed  the  scholar's  stoop, 

Even  my  mind  was  bent 
(On  books) — I  was  no  undergrad — 

I  knew  what  study  meant. 

As  on  I  sped  with  decorous  tread 

Rare  manuscripts  to  scan, 
I  drew  a  note  from  out  my  coat 

And  a  match  fell  down !  What  man 
Confronts  me  there  with  fearful  glare  *? 

Tis  the  Librarian!   !    ! 

My  blood  congealed,  my  senses  reeled, 

For  the  stern  rule  I'd  read; 
I  thought  that  every  hair  must  rise 

In  terror  on  my  head ; 
Then  I  recalled  I  was  quite  bald 

So  I  had  a  chill  instead. 


There  in  the  gloom  I  saw  my  doom — 

Ejected  by  the  staff! 
I'd  read  no  more  on  the  upper  floor 

The  German  monograph; 
For  me  no  home  'neath  RadclifTe's  dome;- 

I  laughed  a  ghastly  laugh. 

"I  swear  'tis  true,  I  never  knew 
I  owned  that  match."  He  sighed. 

"Some  knave,  I  wot,  devised  this  plot 
To  ruin  me."  I  cried. 

"I  never  smoke" — no  more  I  spoke, 
For  I  saw  he  knew  I  lied. 

He  bent  him  down  beneath  his  gown ; 

Now  my  last  hope  was  dead. 
My  sight  grew  dim  as  I  gazed  on  him 

Thrilled  with  a  nameless  dread. 
I  saw  him  snatch  the  accursed  match — 

'Twas  a  match  without  a  head! 


49 


Insomniac 


A  NARRATIVE  POEM  IN  TWO 
CANTOS 

CANTO  I 

He  could  not  sleep!  'Twas  undeserved. 

Sleepless  he  watched  the  morning  break, 
Then  went,  all  wearied  and  unnerved, 

To  keep  an  early  class  awake. 

Life's  tragic  chance  —  Fate's  bitter  jest, 
That  he  whose  voice  taught  eyes  to  close 

Should  be  deprived  the  gift  of  rest, 
Yes,  even  one  half-hour's  doze. 

Said  he,  "I  teach  at  eight  and  two. 

They're  sleepiest  just  after  lunch. 
I  shout  until  my  face  is  blue, 

I  use  up  all  my  pep  and  punch. 

"So  when  night  comes,  my  wearied  brain 
Keeps  plodding  on,  too  tired  to  stop  ; 

Another  week,  I'll  go  insane. 
I'm  dying,  like  a  tree,  on  top." 


I  asked:  "Do  you  to  church  resort*? 

A  sermon  may  invite  to  slumber ; 
An  educational  report 

Is  very  apt  to  get  your  number. 

"The  cure  may  seem  worse  than  the  ill, 

Yet  since  your  desperate  case  we're  treating, 

I  think  more  soporific  still 

Would  be  the  drawn-out  fac'lty  meeting." 

"I've  tried  them  all,"  he  sadly  said, 

"I've   plunged    through    many    a    German 
thesis 

To  find,  when  I  had  gone  to  bed, 
My  old  insomnia  increases. 

"I'll  take  to  drugs!"  "Stop  that!"  I  cried, 
"I'll  make  you  slumber  long  and  late." 

I  knew  the  cure  he  should  have  tried, 
I  sought  an  undergraduate. 


CANTO  II 

"I  know  Professor  X?  Some  kid! 

I  took  his  course,"  he  said.  "And  why"? 
A  chance  to  sleep — the  whole  class  did ; 

You  know  he's  called  the  Tsetse  Fly. 

"If  you  should  ever  feel  all  in, 

Attend  his  lecture — that's  my  hunch. 

Not  eight  o'clock — that  hour's  a  sin ; 
Besides,   he's   sleepiest  after   lunch." 

I  hired  then  a  good  stenog- 

Rapher  each  sleep-fraught  word  to  take, 
And  lest  his  brain  should  slip  a  cog, 

With  coffee  drugged  him  wide  awake. 

At  five  I  had  the  lecture  all 

Typewritten.  Then  I  sought  his  wife 

And  in  a  brief,  five-minute  call 

I  taught  her  how  to  save  his  life. 

That  evening  when  the  clock  struck  ten    . 

He  paced  his  study,  haggard,  cowed. 
Enter  the  wife ;  he  stopped ;  she  then 

Suggested  that  she  read  aloud. 

"Sit  down,"  she  bade,  "and  close  your  eyes ; 

I've  found  a  paper  you  must  hear." 
She  read,  and  to  her  glad  surprise 

A  heavy  breathing  struck  her  ear. 

52 


She  yawned  herself.  The  fire  bells  pealed; 

Jangled  the  angry  telephone; 
It  thundered  loud.  Lightning  revealed 

Him  sleeping  still  as  any  stone. 

She  tiptoed  to  her  room,  while  there 
Completely  cured  (such  was  the  power 

Of  his  own  lecture)  in  that  chair 

He  slept  straight  till  the  breakfast  hour. 

To  see  ourselves  as  others  do 

(So  R.  B.  said)  from  pride  would  clear  us. 
A  better  plan — and  that's  my  view — 

To  hear  ourselves  as  others  hear  us. 


53 


Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  an  Un 
expected  Cut 

There  was   a   time   when   campus,   hall   and 

tower, 
The  grass — a  most  pathetic  sight — 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light 
If  the  professor,  lagging,  missed  the  hour. 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  7 
For  now,  an  item  in  the  News  will  say : 

"Professor  X  no  lecture  gives  to-day." 
Or  on  a  blackboard,  read  by  all  who  pass  : 
"Instructor    Grindhard    cannot    meet    his 

class." 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 
List  as  I  will, 
All  is  too  still, 

The   cheers  which  once   I  heard   I   hear  no 
more. 

Ye  happy  students,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
In  my  mind's  eye,  your  boist'rous  jubilee; 
The  fullness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

A  lecture's  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting 
When   trailing  clouds   of  pipe-smoke   do  ye 
come; 

54 


And  too  much  learning  works  the  mind's  up 
setting 

And  leaves  the  spirit  dumb. 
Whither  has  fled  the  shout  that  pierced  the 

ear 

When  in  life's  daily  rut 
Came  the  unhoped-for  cut  ? 
Where  (don't  ask  me),  where  are  the  elms  of 
yester-year  ? 

Him,    haply    slumbering    o'er    a    ponderous 

tome 

In  Whitney  Avenue  home 
The  clock  arouses  with  its  warning  note. 
With  pallid  face  he's  out  upon  the  street, 
Through  lips  in  anguish  set, 
Mutt' ring,  "I'll  fool  them  yet," 
And  wishing  that  the  hour  would  come  with 

leaden  feet. 

He  waits  with  melancholy 
The  fast  approaching  trolley, 
But  who  his  wild  despair  can  ever  guess 

When  he  beholds — a  Waterb'ry  express ! 
Now  must  he  run,  on  past  the  tennis  courts 
Where  careless  youth  disports. 
Now  scarce  he  sees 
Fair  Hillhouse  Avenue  as  on  he  flees; 

55 


He  notes  not  how  the  elm-beetled  trees  high 

over-arched  embower, 

He  looks  but  at  the  clock  on  Sheffield  tower, 
And  wishes  that  his  legs,  now  wobbling,  had 

more  power. 
Yet  on  he  rushes  past  the  dining  hall 

Whence  odors  fierce  appall ; 
On  through  the  street  ycleped  Grub 

And  in  his  speed  displaces 
The  groups  of  bootblacks  with  their  shin 
ing  faces 

(Ay,  their's  the  rub). 
What  recks  he  though  his  shine  be  three  days 

old? 

Nor  does  he  even  stop 
To  gaze  in  the  Co-op 

To  find  if  one  more  textbook  has  been  sold. 
(Auri  sacra  fames, 
O  get-rich-quick  disease.) 
He  does  not  stay  to  draw  from  his  postbox 
Those  circulars  of  fortune-bringing  stocks ; 
But  faint,  and  scant  of  breath, 
O'er  Elm  Street,  'scaping  death, 
He  leaps.  Now  from  Durfee  the  way  is  clear. 
Sudden    the    chimes    ring    out,    the    students 

cheer — 
He  utters  low  a  word  unmeet  for  lady's  ear! 


Battell's  chimes  toll  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  off  to  tea, 

Professors  homeward  plod  their  weary  way 
And  leave  Yale's  world  to  Weiser  and  to 
me. 

Thanks  to  their  thirty  cuts,  the  students  live 
Through  tests  and  questionings  with  bluffs 

and  fears. 
To  me  an  unexpected  cut  would  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep   for 
jeers. 


57 


a  Freshman 

They  tell  me  that  you  start  for  Yale  to-night ; 

I  trust  it  may  not  dull  anticipation 
To  hear  from  me  some  homely  maxims,  quite 

Horatian. 

At   college  there   are   men   who   seek   "great 

place" 
(So  Bacon  calls  it)   with  much  noise  and 

riot. 

Remember  shouting  never  won  a  race — 
Keep  quiet. 

-Life  is  a  crowded  course,  the  track  is  long, 
The    runner    who    would    win    is    always 

ready ; 
Throw  not  away  your  strength  in  wine  and 

song- 
Keep  steady. 

You'll    hear   much   worldly   wisdom,    simon- 
pure. 
Look  at  Truth's  sunlight  calmly,  without 

blinking ; 

Remember  half  the  sure  things  are  not  sure — 
Keep  thinking. 


The  mind  must  move  or  else  it  turns  to  rust ; 

You  blunt  its  edge  when  you  descend  to 

shirking. 
Test  what  you  hear ;  take  little  upon  trust — 

Keep  working. 

It  is  no  mark  of  greatness  to  complain, 
And  wit  is  far  removed  from  mere  reviling. 

Remember  laughter  clears  a  clouded  brain — 
Keep  smiling. 

When  failure  seems  the  end  of  bold  desire, 
Sit  not,  like  shivering  Age,  forever  groping 

Over  the  whitening  ashes  of  the  fire — 
Keep  hoping. 

You  may  have  watched  a  swimmer,  far  from 

shore, 
Sink   in   a   wave  whose   foaming   crest  is 

breaking. 

You  hear  his  last  cry  in  the  ocean's  roar, 
(Mistaking.) 

The  wave  recedes,  an  arm  gleams  in  the  light, 
He  plunges  on;  life's  cup  seems  overbrim 
ming. 

So  when  a  breaker  buries  you  from  sight — 
Keep  swimming. 

59 


Admonition 

Thomas,  it's  always  been  my  rule 
In  the  Memorial  Vestibule 
As  I  pass  by  on  either  side 
The  names  of  those  who  fought  and  died, 
To  doff  my  hat.  I  see  that  you 
Without  that  gesture  hurry  through. 
Those  names,  unnoticed  and  unknown, 
Are  in  your  eyes  just  so  much  stone. 
Thomas,  I  think  if  you  but  knew, 
You'd  quickly  change  that  point  of  view. 

Those  names,  engraven  on  that  wall, 

Were  men  in  love  with  life,  with  all 

That  makes  this  place,  that  thrills  you  here. 

How  often  have  I  joined  the  cheer 

For  one  as  down  the  track  he  sped, 

For  one  who  drove  his  shell  ahead. 

One,  the  true  FalstafT,  I  still  see 

Shaking  his  sides  with  jollity. 

The  wide  Bowl  seemed  a  flower  of  blue 

For  one  as  he  went  dashing  through 

The  opposing  line.  In  college  room 

I've  talked  with  them.  The  twilight  gloom 

Stole  in  unnoticed.  Books  and  art, 

And  music — all  life's  better  part — 

How  much  they  meant,  how  much  to  plan 

60 


In  the  long  years  before  each  man. 
Cloud  castles  gleamed  with  magic  light; 
We  read  and  talked  far  into  night. 

Little  those  names  to  you  can  tell, 
You  only  know  they  fought  and  fell. 
They  died  on  land,  on  sea,  in  air, 
They  went  to  meet  Death  everywhere ; 
They  led  the  charge ;  they  met  the  end 
In  lonely  outpost,  far  from  friend. 
They  died  while  sheltering  their  men, 
They  fell  in  flames,  one  fighting  ten.  .   .   . 
Perhaps  it's  best  for  you  and  me 
We  know  not  their  nobility, 
For  if  we  did,  we  might  despise 
Ourselves,  and  all  that  we  now  prize. 

If  we  forget  what  they  have  done, 
Better  for  us  oblivion. 
Better  each  hall  and  tower  were  drowned, 
Buried  beneath  the  engulfing  Sound. 
And  if  within  these  walls  such  men 
Shall  never  work  and  play  again, 
If  there's  among  us  none  who  see 
The  dreams  of  life,  the  mystery, 


6l 


Or  feel  at  times  great  winds  rush  by 
Lifting  the  spirit  to  the  sky, 
Better  all  Yale  were  swept  away 
And  where  it  stood,  no  man  could  say. 

Thomas,  it  is  not  much  to  do — 
I'd  doff  my  cap,  if  I  were  you. 


62 


a  Senior 

I  can't  believe  that  your  four  years  are  end 
ing; 
I've  caught  brief  glimpses  of  you,  and  you 

.  g°' 
"Time  flies" — I'll  say  no  more.  What  use  of 

spending 
Last  moments  in  dull  platitudes  all  know. 

Surely  no  barrier  has  been  between  us ; 
Our  friendship  will  outlast  your  course,  I 

trust. 

I  hope  you've  found  the  Professorial  genus 
Not  half  bad,  when  you  get  beneath  the 
crust. 

Now  for  good-bye,  no  lecture  I  am  giving, 
(Though    old    didactic    habits    are    quite 

strong) 
But  some  stray  hints  upon  the  "Art  of  Liv- 

ing," 
As  Fielding  calls  it — I  shall  not  be  long. 


You've  shown  yourself  a  man  of  some  dis 
cerning. 

Out  in  the  rush  of  life  you'll  quickly  find 
It   does  not  matter  much  what  you've  been 

learning ; 

Your   fate  hangs   on  the  temper   of  your 
mind. 

And  five  years  hence,  you'll  have  small  recol 
lection 

Of  all  you  studied,  all  you  hurried  through. 
It  matters  not,  if,  in  the  right  direction, 
(And  we  have  tried)  we  may  have  pointed 
you. 

We've  shown  you  the  world's  best,  in  thought, 

in  action ; 
To  what  far  heights  the  soul  of  man  can 

mount. 

Climb  high  yourself.  There's  little  satisfaction 
In  summing  life  up  by  a  bank  account. 

Keep  some  bright  dream.  Don't  end  up  dull 

and  sodden. 

(So  many  do.)   Often  a  poet's  line 
Can   lift   you    from   the    ruts   of   life,    deep- 
trodden, 
And  Beauty  change  the  brute  to  the  divine. 


Never  come  back  fat,  fatuous  at  forty, 

Thinking    Yale's    life   is    measured   by    a 

game; 

With  prosperous  air,  a  cynic,  somewhat  sporty, 
The  old  fire  gone — not  even  a  quivering 
flame. 

We'll  never  solve  this  crux  of  education. 
One  year  we  make — the  next,  destroy  our 

plan; 

But  if  you've  caught  here  Truth's  high  in 
spiration, 
Think  of  us  all  as  kindly  as  you  can. 


IN  VACATION 


In  term  time  we  must  flippant  be, 

Lest,  brain-struck,  we  should  grow  deliri 
ous. 
Vacation  brings  tranquillity, 

And,  for  whole  weeks,  we  dare  be  serious. 

Read  but  these  verses,  written  then. 

(They're  simple  sketches,  quite  informal) 
Yet  they  may  prove  we're  average  men 

And — out  of  classrooms — fairly  normal. 


Poplars 

The  poplar  is  a  lonely  tree. 
It  has  no  branches  spreading  wide 
Where  birds  may  sing  or  squirrels  hide. 
It  throws  no  shadows  on  the  grass 
Tempting  the  wayfarers  who  pass 
To  stop  and  sit  there  quietly. 

The  poplar  sees  each  neighbor  tree 
Loved  by  the  birds.  The  oriole 
Swings  from  the  elm  its  home ;  the  bole 
Of  that  rough  oak,  above,  around, 
Hears  the  woodpecker's  rapid  sound 
As  on  he  works  industriously. 

The  poplar  is  a  slender  tree. 

It  has  no  boughs  where  children  try 

To  climb  far  off  into  the  sky. 

To  hold  a  swing  it's  far  too  weak, 

Too  small  it  is  for  hide-and-seek. 

Friendless,  forsaken  it  must  be. 


The  poplar  is  a  restless  tree. 

At  every  breeze  its  branches  bend 

And  signal  to  the  child,  "Come,  friend." 

Its  leaves  forever  whispering 

To  thrush  and  robin,  "Stay  and  sing." 

They  pass.  It  quivers  plaintively. 

Poplars  are  lonely.  They  must  grow 
Close  to  each  other  in  a  row. 

New  Haven. 


Recompense 

Where  the  green  fir-tips  meet  the  sapphire  sky 

A  gull,  cloud-white, 
Careless  of  earth,  floats  insolently  by 

In  the  warm  light. 

Still,  imperturbable,  it  holds  a  course 

To  lands  unknown, 

And  scornful  of  the  south  wind's  gathering 
force 

It  sails  alone, 

Seeing  unmoved  the  noon's  exultant  glow, 

The  evening's  grief, 

The    wind-swept    waves    that    crumble    into 
snow 

Upon  the  reef. 

The  ships  becalmed  or  scudding  for  the  shore 

In  wind  and  rain, 
Alluring  isles — all  these  it  passes  o'er 

In  calm  disdain. 

Deep  in  the  woods,  the  sea  left  far  behind, 

I  listen  long, 
Searching  in  ambush,  yet  in  vain,  to  find 

Who  sings  that  song. 

73 


I  know  those  notes  pure  as  the  brooks  that 
gush 

Down  Alpine  vale; 
Enchantress  of  the  woods,  the  hermit-thrush, 

Our  nightingale. 

Its  world  a  forest  bough ;  here  in  the  shade 

It  sings  unseen 
The  magic  songs  a  yearning  lover  made 

To  charm  a  queen. 

The  ocean-wandering  gull  from  all  his  quest 

Can  nothing  bring. 

You  have  the  world  within  your  throbbing 
breast, 

For  you  can  sing. 

Maine. 


74 


fhe  Wife 

The  day  was  fair,  the  wind  blew  steadily. 
We  raised  the  sails   and  headed  straight  to 

sea, 

Gay  fugitives  from  that  mad  prison  pen 
The  City;  the  new  Moloch  to  whom  men 
Offer  themselves  a  living  sacrifice. 
We  had  escaped.  Sudden  before  our  eyes 
Unrolled  the  wind-tossed  carpet  of  the  seas, 
The  radiant  fields  of  heaven  shone.  At  ease, 
Sprawling  upon  the  deck,  we  watched  on  high 
The  lazy  clouds,  outstripped  as  we  sped  by; 
Laughed  as  the  spray  flew  over  us,  and  now 
Heard   the   waves    singing   round   our   eager 

prow. 

Like  drowsy  children,  careless  and  content, 
We  looked,  but  questioned  not  what  all  this 

meant. 

Rousing  us  from  this  happy  lethargy, 
Our  artist  called  us  to  awake  and  see 
The  ocean  shadows  drifting  clouds  had  made, 
With  half  the  waves  in  light,  and  half  in 

shade. 

His  pipe  in  hand,  he  praised  the  skill  of  one 
Whose  brush  could  catch  the  waters,  hold  the 

sun, 

75 


And  fix  the  heavens  in  a  gilded  frame. 
Our  poet  spoke  of  one,  assured  of  fame, 
Whose  verse  swayed  with  the  rhythm  of  the 

tide 
And  foam-peaked  waves,  and  dipping  gulls. 

He  tried 

To  sing  the  ballad  he  had  lately  made. 
From  that  we  talked  of  music ;  how  one  played 
Until  it  seemed  Nature  herself  had  lent 
All  earthly  tones  to  his  small  instrument. 
At  length  we  felt  our  day  was  incomplete, 
Old  Adam  rose  within  us — we  must  eat. 

Hot  from  the  cabin,  eagerly  we  took 

The  feast  prepared  by  our  much  lauded  cook ; 

Well  fed,  untroubled,  what  more  could  life 

give*? 

"Brothers,"  said  one,  "this  is  the  way  to  live, 
Feasting  on  chowder,  nature,  verse,  and  art." 
"Here,"  said  the  skipper,  "hand  me  up  that 

chart. 

That  sky  looks  angry.  Luckily  we  planned 
To  sail  no  further ;  now  we'll  make  for  land." 
We  found  upon  the  chart  our  little  bay 
And  all  the  reefs  that  barred  our  vessel's  way. 
The  wind  blew  sharply  as  we  went  about. 
"There's  nasty  weather  coming,  it's  no  doubt." 


As  we  drew  near  the  harbor  a  small  boat 
Came  bounding  towards  us.  In  tarpaulin  coat 
A  fisher,  all  alone,  stood  at  the  wheel. 
"Look,"  cried  our  skipper,  "how  would  you 

folks  feel 

To  be  there  sailing  headed  out  to  sea? 
And  that's  a  woman ;  she's  the  kind  for  me. 
It's  do  or  die,  her  children  must  be  fed, 
And  she  must  find  the  food,  her  man  half 

dead. 

In  a  rough  sea  like  this,  it  takes  a  lot 
Of  strength  to  pull  in  just  one  lobster  pot; 
And  then,  to  hold  your  boat  in  wind  and  rain. 
That's  the  best  woman  on  the  coast  of  Maine." 
And  now  her  boat  shot  past  us,  and  we  all 
Raised  a  loud  cheer,  but  if  she  heard  our  call, 
She  never  turned  nor  waved  to  us  her  hand. 
Against  the  darkening  sky  we  saw  her  stand, 
Holding  her  course,  drenched  by  the  driving 

spray. 

We  watched  her  till  she  faded  far  away. 
Abashed  we  stood,  we  who  had  played  with 

life, 
Awed  by   the   sudden   glimpse  of  that   lone 

wife; 

Like  guilty  men  who  silently  confess, 
Stunned  by  the  thought  of  our  own  littleness. 

Maine. 

77 


Friends 

Fate  and  hard  foes  are  prevailing? 

Friends  leave  you  stricken?  The  three, 
When  was  their  strength  ever  failing, 

The  cliff,  and  the  wind,  and  the  sea ! 

Steep  climbs  the  path — never  shun  it — 
Up  where  the  hidden  larks  sing; 

There  is  rest  on  the  cliff  when  you've  won  it, 
In  the  grass  that  is  fragrant  with  ling. 

No  cry  from  the  gulls,  dipping,  calling; 

No  voice  from  the  boats  far  below ; 
No  sound  from  the  waves,  leaping,  falling, 

To  edge  the  sand  crescent  with  snow. 

Here  stilled  is  the   scourging  emotion, 
And  hushed  is  the  Memory's  sigh 

In  the  limitless  peace  of  the  ocean, 
In  the  moors  rolling  up  to  the  sky. 

Comes  the  wind;  with  a  shout  he  is  chasing 
The  crested  waves — faster  he  flies. 

The  fishing  fleet  homeward  is  racing, 
Cloud  galleons  speed  down  the  skies. 


Sheer  the  cliff ;  but  your  dauntless  desiring 
Through  the  high  gates  of  Heaven  shall 
climb. 

Your  spirit,  keen,  quenchless,  untiring, 
Shall  pass  the  gray  mere-stones  of  Time. 

Strong  the  wind ;  now  the  far  sails  are  filling. 

Outstripping  each  bark  shall  you  go 
Through  fathomless  seas  where  the  thrilling 

Swift  wind  of  the  spirit  shall  blow. 

The  baffled  waves,  ceaselessly  ranging, 
Must  find  at  the  cliff  their  far  goal ; 

More  resistless,  onrushing,  unchanging, 
Sweep  the  measureless  tides  of  the  soul. 

Man,  are  strong  foes  pressing  near  you*? 

Seek  out  your  friends — they  are  three. 
Are  they  not  waiting  to  cheer  you, 

The  cliff,  and  the  wind,  and  the  sea! 

Sidmouth,  Devon. 


79 


The  High  Hills  of  Moab 

Over   the   deep    valley  where    clings    Siloam 

town, 
Eastward  I'm  gazing,  dreaming,   for   Olivet 

drops  down 
And  there  beyond  the  Dead  Sea,  clear  wrought 

against  the  sky, 
A  strange  land  of  wonder,  the  Hills  of  Moab 

lie. 

From  those  bleak  uplands  to  Bethlehem's 
hillside  green 

Came  Ruth  broken-hearted  in  strange  fields 
to  glean. 

There  John  lay  murdered  for  a  Queen's  de 
sire — 

The  sunset  glow  on  Moab  is  a  smouldering 
fire. 

When  from  her  deserts  Queen  Cleopatra  came 
Luring  proud  Herod  with  her  eyes  of  flame, 
Silent  she  saw  those  hills  of  Moab  stand 
Like  a  dream,  when  the  moonlight  flooded  all 
the  land. 


80 


What  should  I  find  there  if  I   scaled   their 

steep, 

Black  tents  of  Kedar  and  pastures  for  sheep, 
Oleanders    blooming    by    the    swift    running 

stream  *? 
The  far  hills  of  Moab  in  the  twilight  gleam. 

Homing  rooks  circle  round  their  nests  in  the 

wall, 
Cool    grow    the    wheat    fields    as    the    long 

shadows  fall ; 
The  day's  work  is  ended,  and  yet  I  stand  and 

stare 
At  the  high  hills  of  Moab  and  wonder  what 

lies  there. 

Jerusalem. 


8l 


Damascus 

As  I  rode  to  Damascus, 

Camels  went  lumbering  by 
With  jangling  bells  and  blue  beads 

To  charm  the  evil  eye. 
With  cloths  and  silks  o'erburdened, 

Swaying  like  ships  at  sea, 
They  plodded  down  the  white  road 

That  winds  to  Galilee. 

As  I  rode  to  Damascus 

Dazed  by  the  noonday  glow, 
Wishing  to  climb  to  Hermon's  peaks 

And  reach  cool  plains  of  snow; 
Sudden  the  parched  earth  vanished, 

In  waving  trees,  thick  set, 
I  saw  blue  domes  arising 

And  slender  minaret. 

All  Babylon's  green  gardens 

Lie  fathoms  deep  in  sand, 
But  Damascus  is  a  cool  grove 

On  the  edge  of  desert  land. 
The  streams  of  bleak  Judaea 

Are  dried  up  in  the  heat; 
But  rivers,  in  Damascus, 

Run  dancing  through  the  street. 

82 


O  Damascus  is  a  rare  town 

To  one  far  journeying, 
For  there,  through  all  the  starlit  night, 

I  heard  the  water  sing. 

Esh-Sham. 


The  Ending 

I  stand  at  close  of  day 

On  Carmel's  height; 
Across  the  sapphire  bay 

Acre  gleams  bright. 

The  sea  outshines  the  sky — 

Blue,  purple,  green — 
Where  fleets  from  Tyre  swept  by 

No  sails  are  seen. 

Birds  sing  on  every  side. 

Without  avail 
Priests  groveled  here  and  cried, 

"Hear  us,  O  Baal." 

Through  all  Esdraelon's  plain 

No  camp  fires  gleam; 
That  armies  here  were  slain 

Is  but  a  dream. 

Where  Barak  put  to  flight, 

As  Deborah  tells, 
Sisera,  the  Canaanite, 

The  goatherd  dwells. 


On  far-stretched  plain  and  sea 

Shadows  descend. 
Pursuit,  rout,  victory 

Come  to  this  end. 

The  sea  bears  from  the  moon 

A  golden  fleece. 
Though  it  be  late  or  soon, 

All  ends  in  peace. 

Mt.  Carmel. 

FINIS 


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